Doubt
by allonsysherlocklove
Summary: Sherlock returns home pretty badly battered, and John is pulled from his nice warm bath to treat him. Pre-slash. Johnlock. No smut this time, sorry!


A/N: This piece was written in celebration of 5k likes on the Facebook page Get Sherlock. You should go over and give them a like.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfic, that's for sure. Ahem. Anyway, those lucky bastards, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own him, along with the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle. Only the plot is mine.

* * *

John sighed as he relaxed, the hot water from the tub soothing his aching shoulder. He knew he should have dressed more warmly. The biting February cold had ripped through his jumper and his shirt and caused his shoulder to seize up. It was really Sherlock's fault. He's the one that left John waiting for him in the cold and then never showed up. He had waited for more than an hour before he was finally cold enough and headed for the nearest underground station to catch the tube home. Leave it to that man, the infuriatingly beautiful man, to take a captain and turn him into his own personal servant. Still, it was worth it to have the chance to be around that brilliant prat.

The heat was working its magic because the ache in John's shoulder was slowly seeping out. As the pain became less and less, John's eyes drooped more and more until he was asleep.

The next thing he was aware of was the rattling of the doorknob. He barely had time to register what was happening when the door burst open and Sherlock pushed his way in. He stooped over and started rummaging through the cabinet under the sink. He kept his back to John, completely ignoring him.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John shouted. "I locked the door."

"Yes, and I opened it it," he replied, his voice muffled by his position.

"Yeah, well, I'm having a bath. You couldn't have just waited?"

Sherlock kept rifling through the cabinet, apparently choosing to ignore John. John was about to speak again when he realized that Sherlock was in the bathroom with him. While he was naked.

"Are you about done?" John asked, afraid to move in case he attracted the detective's attention. His bath had gone cold, and now, thanks to Sherlock, he needed to go back to his room and have a wank.

"Momentarily," John frowned. Something about his voice was off. He almost sounded like he was in pain. He looked at the detective more closely. From his position, he could only see the back of Sherlock's head, his coat and his legs. Sherlock's curls were more disheveled than normal, and his coat looked like it had been lying on the ground. John's gaze flicked down to his trousers. They were in a similar state, and the looked as though the knees were torn.

"Sherlock," John said, his tone much firmer.

"I'm leaving now. Relax." He still wasn't turning around.

"Sherlock, turn around."

"No." Still, he froze as if he was trying to make a decision.

"Sherlock, now," John commanded using his captain's voice. All his thoughts about how attractive he thought Sherlock was were replaced by concern over his well-being.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before he sighed and turned around. It took John a moment to realize what he was looking at. There was blood everywhere; a trail that ran from his nose, nasty looking cuts next to his eyes, a split lip. And the swelling around his eyes. His whole face looked like his head had been bashed into a wall repeatedly.

"What happened," John asked as he looked around for a towel. There was one on the radiator behind him. He pulled it off and stood, careful to keep the towel between himself and Sherlock.

"Really, John?" Sherlock scoffed. "Why the ridiculous modesty?"

John ignored him and securely wrapped the towel around his waist. He stepped out of the bath and took the two steps to where Sherlock was standing. "What happened?" he asked as he gently examined Sherlock's cheek.

"It was nothing, John. Hardly worth mentioning."

"Don't give me that," John growled. "Not when you come in here looking like someone put you through a paper shredder." Suddenly, John felt guilty. Is this what had happened while he was grumbling about being left out in the cold?

John glanced down at Sherlock's hands. He had the med kit. John sighed, and then realized that he was standing there in nothing but a towel.

"Er," John started. "Take this to the kitchen and wait for me there. Don't try to run off and try to treat this yourself."

Rather than grumbling, Sherlock gave him a searching look. Uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze, John hurried out the door and up the stairs to his room. He changed into soft cotton trousers and a tshirt and went back down the stairs where, surprisingly, Sherlock was sitting a chair waiting for him. His coat and jacket were draped over the back of an unoccupied chair. His shirt was torn in several places, and John could catch of glimpse of bruises through the holes.

Taking a steadying breath, John popped open the med kit which was sitting on the table. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and turned back to Sherlock who was looking at him expectantly. He started by checking for skull fractures, his fingers gently brushing through Sherlock's curls. Oddly, Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it. John jerked his fingers back when he realized that he had already thoroughly checked his skull. He turned his attention to the detective's face, which didn't help that much. John pulled a flashlight from the kit and checked Sherlock's pupils. Normal.

"What's the chemical symbol for lead?" he asked, knowing that asking who the Prime Minister was would be a waste of time.

"Pb," Sherlock replied immediately, sighing heavily as John fussed over him.

"Huh" John said thoughtfully. "Somehow, you managed to avoid a concussion. Bloody miraculous if you ask me."

Sherlock just hummed in response. John continued to allow his fingers to skim across Sherlock's cheekbones and jawline. No breaks, but definitely beautifully shaped.

"I need to take your shirt off."

John immediately cringed at hi choice of words. And of course, that curious gaze was back on him as Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt.

"Tell me what happened," John insisted.

"Not really much to tell. I happened across a couple of men that I had angered. I had them convicted for burglary. They decided that this was an appropriate response. Don't worry," he added in response to John's worried expression. "They are as bad as me, if not worse."

John couldn't help the swell of pride that rose in his chest. However, before he could think about it, Sherlock reached the bottom button of his shirt. He tugged it off stiffly and dropped it on the floor next to him. John barely managed to hold back a gasp of appreciation as the detective's toned shoulders and chest were exposed. Unfortunately, Sherlock happened to look at his face right at that moment. His mouth twitched into that annoying knowing smirk of his, and John cursed himself silently.

John looked away from Sherlock and gently pressed his ribs. Sherlock groaned a couple of times, but fortunately, they were just bruised. John risked a glance back at the detective's face. The knowing smirk was replaced by something else. Something hungrier, more predatory.

"Um, I'll just clean your face up and stitch the two cuts, and then I'll be done." Thankful for a reason to walk away, John crossed the kitchen and took a clean flannel from the cupboard. He wet it quickly under the tap and walked back across the kitchen, pausing only to grab a stool. He set the stool in front of Sherlock and climbed on top so that Sherlock's eyes were about level with his collar bones.

Brushing back Sherlock's hair with his right hand, John quickly washed the blood and grime from Sherlock's forehead. Careful to avoid the cuts around his left eye, John deftly cleaned the rest of the mess from Sherlock's face, lingering over the detective's lips without realizing it. John cleared his throat as soon as he realized what he was doing and quickly turned away.

Next, he took the disinfectant from the kit and cleaned the cuts, pulling back slightly when Sherlock hissed in pain. He dropped the used swabs back on the table as soon as he was done and picked up the syringe with the local anesthetic and injected it carefully around Sherlock's wounds so he could do the stitches.

John sat back on the stool and watched Sherlock while he waited for the local to take effect. There was an unnatural silence between them, but John didn't dare break it. Sherlock still had that hungry look on his face, and he didn't dare disturb it. Still, Sherlock looked much better now that he'd been cleaned up, if a bit swollen.

"I'm numb," Sherlock said after a few moment, breaking John out of his musings. He picked up his needle off the table and leaned forward so that he was mere inches from Sherlock's face. He took a steadying breath to relax himself and began stitching.

It wasn't until John was half way through the first cut that he realized that he had not chosen the best position to do this. Each of Sherlock's breaths ghosted across John's ear, disturbing his hair and sending chills through his whole body. He was so close to Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't touch, and that was driving him mad.

Finally, finally, John finished the last stitch. He cut the thread and turned quickly to get off the stool, but Sherlock's hand shot out and caught his wrist in a firm grip.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John snapped. "Let go." He really needed that wank after the personal hell he had just sat through.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, his voice low as he looked up at John through his eyelashes.

John sighed. "You're welcome. That's what friends do."

"But you want to be more than friends."

"Wha-what?" John spluttered. "No! What are you talking about?"

"Don't lie to me, John." Sherlock stood so that he was taller than John. He was quite a formidable sight, even with all the injuries. John began to panic as he tried to ignore how that pale chest nearly glowed in the evening gloom.

John opened his mouth to protest, to insist that Sherlock was wrong, but nothing came out. He was about to stand and flee to his room when Sherlock lowered his head and allowed his lips to meet John's. John froze, not sure that this was really happening.

Just as he was about to respond, Sherlock pulled away and scowled. "You're supposed to participate, not sit there like an idiot."

John wasn't sure what made him do it, but he tangled his fingers into detective's hair and gently pulled his face back down and slotted their lips together. He let all his worries and fears about this slip away and just responded to the detective's mouth.

As the kiss grew more heated, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and began to stroke his back through the thin fabric of the tshirt. John moaned lightly and let his tongue flick out and brush against Sherlock's lower lip, careful not to aggravate the cuts there. Sherlock opened his mouth wider and John took the opportunity to dip his tongue inside. Sherlock tasted like nothing he'd ever tasted before, and he never wanted to leave. Sherlock began to chase John's tongue with his own, but suddenly he groaned and pulled away.

"Are-are you okay," John panted, worried that he'd hurt the detective.

"Yes, but perhaps we'd better stop. Otherwise, I might pull one of my stitches." John barely suppressed a groan, but he noticed that Sherlock didn't move his arms.

"Are you-" John cleared his throat and started again. "Are you sure about this? About us?"

"John, I wouldn't have kissed you if I wasn't sure."

A smile crossed John's face slowly until it became a full grin. He couldn't believe that this was actually happening, but the taste of Sherlock fresh on his lips and the detective's arms around him said otherwise.

A loud yawn yanked John from his thoughts. "You should go to bed," he said, not quite able to keep the tone of regret from his voice.

Sherlock pouted. "Are you going to come with me at least?"

John smiled again. "Of course, Sherlock. Just let me clear up here." He quickly tossed the flannel into the sink and dropped the trash into the bin.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "Perhaps if I am not as sore tomorrow, we can do something more...interesting."

John ignored the heat that rose in his face at Sherlock's suggestion and tipped his head upward to press a gentle kiss against Sherlock's lips.

"Sounds like a good idea. Who know? I might even make it worth your time."

Something in Sherlock's expression softened at John's words. "I'm sure you will."


End file.
